


Candles In the Pumpkins

by musegnome



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bonfires, Costumes, F/M, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunting, Legends, M/M, Magic, Ouija, Possession, Racketghost's Halloween Prompts, Rituals, Spooky, Vampires, Witches, bones - Freeform, graveyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27114196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musegnome/pseuds/musegnome
Summary: Thirteen vignettes in honor of the spooky season, written forracketghost's Halloween prompt list.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 89
Kudos: 48
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. Ghosts

A pale vision greeted Crowley when he awoke.

Satin shoes. Silk stockings. The brocade coat, the fine linen shirt, all of it – the clothes were just as Crowley remembered them. With one exception:

Instead of a lace cravat at the neck, there was a spill of blood red.

Red was one of the colours that took on nighttime hues most easily, turning quickly to grey or black to blend with the shadows. There was no reason it should stand out so vividly in the dark room. 

And yet.

Crowley bolted upright in his bed. The Bastille’s executioner stood in the doorway wearing Aziraphale’s extravagant garb, head tucked beneath an elbow. The bearded face glared at him angrily as its body raised its free hand and gestured to the floor.

His heat-sensory vision thwarted by the chill of the apparition’s presence, Crowley slid warily from the blankets and peered about in the dark. All he could find was the executioner’s clothing, which was flung about the room, scattered in every direction.

He reached for the closest piece. It was the red jacket – or at least it was red in his memory; in the darkness it was a bleak grey. Tentatively he stepped forward and offered it to the executioner, who reached out a transparent hand. It vanished when the ghostly fingers touched it and appeared on the specter in place of the angel’s brocade coat. 

Breeches, shirt, sash, and the rest went from the floor to the ghost’s body. The last to go was the cap that had looked so ridiculous on Aziraphale’s pale curls. When the executioner plucked it from Crowley’s grasp, he carefully adjusted his grip to place the cap atop his own severed head.

The beheaded ghost gave one final glare: directed not at Crowley, but at the covered form in the bed behind him. Then he disappeared with a rustle of cloth. All that was left of his presence was a heap of elegant clothes in cream and gold, silk and satin. 

Crowley gathered them up, smoothed them out, and draped them over the single chair in his spartan room. The deep red of the executioner’s blood still marked the front of the shirt and coat. Crowley snapped his fingers and the stains disappeared. He had a feeling he would always know they were there. 

There was only one piece missing from the lavish outfit, but Crowley knew exactly where it was.

At the sound of the snap there was a murmur and shuffle behind him. Aziraphale sat up groggily in Crowley’s bed, covers falling from his body, naked except for the froth of lace at his throat. “What are you doing, Crowley?” he demanded sleepily. “It’s cold without you.”

Crowley slipped back beneath the blankets. As their mouths met in the dark, and as their hands began again to wander, he made certain to tuck himself between Aziraphale and the doorway. Just in case.


	2. Bones

The bones creak, and break, and grind, and their dust rains down with the screams.

In a room far below, it waits with the others. They sit silent. Sometimes a flash of orange light from the fires illuminates the billowing dust in the darkness, but for the most part it is pitch black at the bottom of the pit. Their cell is damp, and the bone dust sticks to their cracked and crooked scales.

The door slams open.

“We need the next one!” 

It is not very close to the entrance, but in their bumbling excitement the others knock it forward and an arm shoots out and drags it from the dark. The door crashes closed. As it is shoved down the corridor, blinking and dazed in the dim light, it hears the other Ushers chittering in disappointment.

It has been told about the sash, about the staff with the skull and curling horns, and when Duke Hastur brings them forth it feels a rush of excitement. The sash is thrown over its head. The staff is pushed into its hands, and it carefully curls its claws about the shaft.

“A great honor for you.” Duke Hastur’s grin is not entirely unpleasant. “You’re to herald the death of the traitor. The Method of his Execution.”

The Usher doesn’t quite know what all this means, but it sounds important indeed. Duke Hastur stalks toward the great court chamber, where thousands of voices are clamoring, and it trundles hurriedly in his wake. Puffs of bone dust shake from its scales with each rolling step. As it emerges into the assembly, it has just enough time to wish it weren’t quite so dirty. 

That it had time to get clean.


	3. Graveyard

Adam’s parents took him with them to the funeral. Deirdre felt he was old enough to attend. Arthur felt he was old enough to learn how to tie a tie, and so they bought him his first suit, resigned to the fact that he would likely outgrow it in less than a year. 

Adam couldn’t remember the name of the great-uncle whose funeral he was attending, but the graveyard made him feel strange.

After the service, while his mum and dad were mingling with the rest of the family members he didn’t know, Adam slipped away and went wandering through the gravestones. He idly scraped moss off of one, cleared rotten leaves from another.

Between one step and the next, his vision faded to black. He collapsed between the stones.

He was younger, smaller, weaker. The stink of sulfur and brimstone filled his nose; he felt a soft blanket on his back; he heard the click of wicker closing above him. He was enclosed on all sides. There was a sense of enormous pressure around him, and the sound of crumbling earth. But through it all he couldn’t see a thing.

He blinked and suddenly he was back, on his knees in the graveyard, with birds chirping and sun shining and a willow frond brushing his cheek. 

Another blink and he was back to black. 

Deep voices talked angrily, and dead leaves rustled, and the wicker surrounding him – some kind of basket? – creaked as it lurched from one grip to another. He was flying in the dark, listening to a mechanical growl and the hum of tires. He was jostled in the basket as he was handed from person to person. The lid popped open and blinding light replaced the darkness that had filled his vision. He heard a woman’s voice, and felt fingers brushing across his hands and toes.

Adam came back to himself, but he could still feel fingers brushing against his own. He was on the ground, on his stomach, and his hands were sunk into the earth up to his elbows.

He tried not to scream.

He was terrified he would be trapped – that the gravediggers would have to come shovel him out – but when he jerked his arms they slid easily from the dirt. He staggered to his feet. The smell of dead and rotting graveyard leaves filled his nose, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the ones crumbling under his feet or the… other ones.

“Adam!” his father shouted, and the sound of his human voice was a shock. 

For the first time Adam realized his smart new suit was covered in mud and leaves. He brushed at them frantically, desperate to get them away from his body. As the leaves fell from him, and as he soaked in the sunshine and birdsong, the whole incident began to seem distant and unreal. His terror began to wane.

When his mother’s voice called out with his father’s his panic turned from fading fear of the supernatural to the growing horror of having to explain the state of his brand-new dress clothes. He found he couldn’t quite remember how they’d gotten so dirty. What had happened? 

Adam trotted back to his parents, stumbling a bit on the last of the leafy twigs, mind full of possible stories but forgetful of the actual explanation.

And below (so very far below, but not so far as to be out of reach) Beelzebub slowly withdrew their arm from the dirt above, and rubbed grains of earth between their fingertips, and regarded the hand that had touched the fingers of the Antichrist child himself. 

Wondered if there could be another such chance to pull him down. To bring him home.


	4. Vampires

A trillion things were rushing through the Antichrist’s mind as he worked to remake the world, so there was no reason a puddle should have come to his attention. Regardless, the tiny fragment of his mind that wasn’t occupied with things like un-burning bookshops and un-exploding old cars was fascinated by the gooey, viscous pool on the concrete floor of a Mayfair flat. 

It was soaked through with demonic evil _(this he knew, it felt like him)_ but it was soaked through with something else too, something that made him wrinkle his nose in distaste. _Holy water?_

He was the Antichrist. He knew about demons, and about evil. But he was also an eleven-year-old boy. And like many other eleven-year-olds, he knew all about the different kinds of monsters. He certainly knew which ones got killed by holy water. 

And _also_ like many other eleven-year-olds, he thrilled at the thought of things that go bump in the night. So when he was fixing up the rest of the world, he fixed up the monster too.

***

When Ligur opened his red, red eyes, he found himself weak with something he couldn’t name. A terrible _wanting_. The desire for liquid in his mouth and down his dry throat.

Thirst.

He’d never known _thirst_. It was a human thing, wasn’t it?

At the thought of humans, his mouth began to water. It was a strange sensation, one he hadn’t felt before, and he would have been far more concerned if it hadn’t made him realise there was a difference to his teeth. They were still sharp, but the incisors were long and viciously pointed. 

Like Crowley’s. Crowley the traitor with his snake fangs, his human obsessions and his angel boyfriend, with his animal tattooed on his temple instead of on his head.

His animal! Ligur reached up, but there was no lizard to be found. 

The thirst hit him again, so hard he bent double, gasping and retching, swallowing down saliva that did nothing to sate him.

When he could move again, Ligur tore apart Crowley’s room in his fury and grief. He stood among the wreckage of the desk and the ridiculous throne, panting and alone. His lizard was gone. Crowley was gone, too, and Hastur. But there were other beings in the building. When he closed his eyes and strained, he could hear the pulsing of human hearts. 

They made him thirsty.

As he stumbled toward the door, he kicked something that rolled aside with a rattle. A bucket. He flinched and cowered without knowing why. And he didn’t like not knowing why; so much of this wretched day had been not knowing why. So with an effort he pushed aside his desperate craving and turned to pick the bucket up. At the very bottom was a small pool of water.

Ligur licked his dry lips with a dry tongue. He tilted the bucket until the last drops had come together. There wasn’t much; perhaps a handful.

He lifted the bucket to his mouth, tipped his head back, and waited for the water to cool his parched and aching throat.

It hit his lips. His shriek wasn’t quite demonic, not any more, but it most definitely wasn’t human either.

***

"Oi!" called Crowley. He was very tired. "Mind the melted demon."

"Melted demon?" Aziraphale demanded. He sounded just as exhausted, but it didn't stop him hurrying to Crowley's office door. _"Crowley._ This is holy water!" He knelt by the puddle, frowning. "Is this... my holy water?"

"Yup." Crowley was so worn out he didn't even bother popping the p.

Aziraphale bit his lip. "And you're absolutely sure this was a demon? It doesn't smell right."

"I should think I'd know." But when Crowley joined Aziraphale and took a surreptitious whiff, he thought the angel might have a point. Something was rather off.

He forgot all about it when Aziraphale straightened, anxious and protective and lovely, and huffed, "I'm not leaving this here. Who knows what this water could do to you? You're sure there's not any more of it left?"

Crowley gingerly stepped over what was left of Ligur and bent over to peer into the bucket on the floor. "Nah. Not a drop."


	5. Witches

_Prophecy 2214: In December 1980 an Apple will arise no man can eat. Invest thy money in Master Jobbes’s machine and good fortune will tend thy days_

“This is balderdash,” said Virtue Device. 

“This is the future,” said her husband John. “The future your mother foretold.” 

Virtue turned away and folded her arms around herself, staring out the window. Agnes had always been loving to her only child. But she’d also been controlling, and sometimes she was distant. And more often than not she was condescending. She knew what Virtue would do before she would do it, and so Virtue’s rebellions and disobediences were anticipated and ignored; her good deeds were vaguely praised before she had done them, which made them rather unrewarding to perform.

And now her mother was gone, and the whole of her village with her. When the neighbors had come to fetch the Devices from the next town over to clear out her home they were angry, they were terrified, and no wonder. The village green was stained black and red with soot and blood. The stake where Agnes had been bound was the worst of it all. The bodies – or what was left of them – had been dragged away by the time John and Virtue had arrived, likely buried in the wide field of fresh-turned earth they had passed in their cart on their way to the cottage. 

Tales of Agnes’s act of vengeance had flown far in the countryside, and the Devices found themselves shunned. Friends now refused to speak with them, and instead whispered rumors in the marketplace. When they went to church they were alone in their pew. Milk and vegetables had stopped appearing at their doorstep.

Virtue scuffed drifts of gunpowder with her boots, and her anger did not feel virtuous at all.

Aside from the gunpowder and an odd nail or two, the cottage was clean and tidy. Virtue and John went through Agnes’s cupboards and drawers, her boxes and bags, and didn’t find anything of note. No poppets, no grimoires, no runestones or carved candles: nothing indicating her mother’s witchery. Only bundles of dried herbs and the book of prophecies. 

Until Virtue opened the chest at the foot of the narrow, neatly made bed. There was a small, hard lump at the bottom, beneath the folded clothes and blankets. Rummaging revealed it to be a pointed stone on a silver chain. When Virtue pulled it from the chest, it began to swing, though her hands were still and steady.

It came to a stop at an unnatural angle in her hands, pointing directly at _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter._

John was on his stomach upon the floor, searching awkwardly beneath the bed, and so he did not notice when Virtue reluctantly opened the book. It fell open easily to a particular page, as if she had turned to a well-read passage.

_Prophecy 1647: Patience is a Virtue, but Virtue may be Impatient. Anathema may Virtue now be to the People, but Anathema to come shall Help to Save the People One and All; the Machines of War will be Broken by the Newt held to her Heart. When the Pendulum Swings True to the Words, the Virtuous Path shall be Made Clear, and the Line of Witches will be Drawn through Time to the Base of Air._

Virtue slammed the book closed. She gritted her teeth. Bowed her head.

With a scuffle John rose to his feet and dusted off his breeches. “There’s naught to be found here. The Witchfinders had nothing to condemn her, but I reckon they paid for their poor judgment well enough.”

He saw the tense, unhappy line of his wife’s body and went to her, wrapping an arm about her waist and drawing her near. “Shall we put her things in the cart, then?”

Virtue slipped the pendulum in her pocket and clutched the book to her chest. “No need. This is all we’ll be taking.” 

John looked surprised. “I thought you said ‘twas balderdash.” 

“It is balderdash. But that doesn’t mean it’s not truth.”

“Well.” John shook his head. “They’ll likely tear down the rest when we leave. A sad end to the home of the last true witch.”

“Perhaps she was the last true witch.” Virtue Device set her jaw grimly against the fate she saw now she couldn't escape. “But I’m to be the next.”


	6. Costumes

This Enemy smelled different from other Enemies. 

Dog could scent the cold power of the Enemy, who sat awkwardly on a log amongst the Boy and the Friends, in the place where they played. But something else far stronger surrounded the Enemy’s chill. It smelled a bit like the Mother’s kitchen when she baked biscuits and a bit like the Father’s noisy rustling newspapers, and a bit like the Not-Enemy who sat beside him.

He wanted to inspect this phenomenon at closer range, so he sat himself down at the Enemy’s feet. The Not-Enemy glared at him. “Adam!” he complained. “Get your stupid hellhound under control.”

“He’s not a hellhound!” said one of the Friends indignantly.

“He’s not stupid!” said the Boy furiously.

“He’s not out of control,” said the Enemy reprovingly. “He’s behaving himself perfectly well. Unlike some I could name.”

The Not-Enemy subsided with a surly growl that Dog had to appreciate. 

He sniffed the hand that the Enemy extended and gave it a tentative lick. He wasn’t so much interested in _greeting_ as in _tasting_. And yes, there it was, on his tongue now as well as in his nose: the faintest hint of ice, but buried beneath a deep layer of warm softness. 

It seemed the Enemy wore a costume too. 

Dog had vague memories of a time when he had not worn the dog-skin. He thought he had been much larger and angrier. And had much sharper teeth. There had been a dark rattling cage underground, and the taste of hot strange blood, and screaming. He didn’t know if he had liked it, but he didn’t like the memory of it.

Now there was the Boy. There were tricks to learn, and balls to fetch, and squirrels to chase. There were scraps sneaked under the kitchen table and a warm bed to snuggle in. And Dog was happy. The Boy had named him and changed what he Was; even so, Dog thought this was a shape he would have chosen for himself, if it was a choice he had been given. 

But sometimes he could sense the hellhound underneath. 

Dog had dismissed the Not-Enemy almost at once. He was like the orange cat: keeping everyone at bay with a layer of claws (most unfairly, in Dog’s opinion), but for the most part the same outside as he was inside. This Enemy, though. He was like Dog: fierce and made for fighting, Dog thought, but hiding it beneath a cuddly disguise. 

He was fascinated. 

He reared up and put his paws on the Enemy’s knee. In Dog’s experience, anyone dressed as neatly as the Enemy was generally not interested in Dog or his fur being near their clothing, but the Enemy only reached out tentatively to pat his head. When they touched, Dog felt a shiver of connection.

“Oi!” shouted the Not-Enemy.

“Dog!” shouted the Boy.

“Oh,” said the Enemy faintly, looking into Dog’s eyes. 

And suddenly Dog found himself scooped up into a warm lap that held nothing of coldness at all, but that smelled like spices, and paper, and just a hint like the air after one of the thundershocks that could send a small dog scurrying under the bed.

“You must know, my dear,” the Enemy murmured into Dog’s ears as he scratched them, too softly for the rest to hear. “Your Boy must have taught you. You must know that we can choose whether our softness is a costume we wear or a reality we live.” 

Together they looked at the Not-Enemy and the Boy, who were arguing heatedly. “And besides,” whispered the Enemy, “it’s nice to have someone to stay soft for, isn’t it?” He gave Dog a gentle hug, running fingers through his fur, and set him back down on the ground.

“He’s a menace!” the Not-Enemy yelled.

“He’s an angel!” the Boy yelled back.

The Not-Enemy spluttered, and the Enemy bent double laughing. When he could speak again, he looked down at Dog. Dog wagged his curly tail, and the Enemy nodded decisively.

“He’s a dog,” the Enemy said. “He’s a very good Dog.”


	7. Bonfire

Tadfield always had an enormous bonfire on the green to celebrate Bonfire Night, but toward the end of every October Ronald P. Tyler had a smaller one on his property, just far enough from the apple orchard to keep the trees safe from stray sparks.

Bonfires weren’t _supposed_ to be orderly or well-behaved, but Ronald’s always were. Which is why it came as such a surprise when this one lashed and crackled and suddenly shot up far higher than he was comfortable with. And he was even less comfortable when orbs of fire came tumbling from the flames. 

The children had been playing nearby – yes, even the Young boy, he was back in the good Tyler graces after helping with the apple picking – and he lurched a few awkward steps toward them with the terrified intention of intervening. But not one fireball came within burning or even singeing distance of anyone. When one rolled to a stop nearby, the flames shrank and he could see what was burning at the centre:

A pumpkin, its orange skin miraculously intact – not even a single blister. 

The flames around it died completely but for a small one that was _inside_ the pumpkin, lighting up a carved, jagged-toothed face that was somehow wicked and merry at the same time. Ronald looked about in confusion. All of the fireballs had jack o’lanterns inside. They peppered the ground in the darkness, their flickering faces scary or funny or strange. 

The children shrieked in delight as each new one erupted from the bonfire. The adults simply shrieked. Even the strange man with fluffy white hair who suddenly stood next to him looked alarmed, although his alarm quickly shifted to something more like irritation.

“Crowley!” he snapped. The bonfire abruptly returned to a more normal height and ceased spitting pumpkin fireballs, but the screaming of Ronald’s guests continued. The stranger looked very cross.

“Would you like some cider?” Ronald asked him. He didn’t recall picking up the warm cup. He also didn’t recall why there was a pit of unease in his gut, or why everyone looked dazed, but the conversation was picking up and the children were starting to run about in the nighttime, and all around them were bright jack o’lanterns set very neatly and symmetrically along his fenceposts. 

“Much better.” The stranger plucked the cup from his hand. “And yes, I would, thank you.” 

Out of nowhere a small pumpkin rolled almost to their feet. It was carved with a snake instead of a face. The stranger picked it up in his free hand and studied it, a reluctantly affectionate smile blooming on his face.

“Scariest thing I could think of, angel,” said a tall, lanky fellow as he stepped out of the bonfire. 

His eyes were yellow and slit-pupilled, just like the snake’s on the pumpkin. Whoever carved it had really done an excellent job. Ronald stared. So did the rest of his guests.

“Oh bother.” The white-haired stranger’s face collapsed into a scowl. 

The bonfire man quickly snapped his fingers. The other partygoers began to mill about, chattering amongst themselves and ignoring the strangers. Ronald couldn’t quite remember where he’d met these two, but he was sure he knew them somehow.

The white-blond man held a cup of cocoa – or at least Ronald thought it was cocoa; it was hard to tell beneath the thick layer of marshmallows – and he looked quite pleased about it. Ronald was rather proud of his cider and he didn’t remember having any cocoa on offer. But he must have had some, hadn’t he? 

“Got any more of those?” asked the tall man, pointing at the marshmallows.

In fact Ronald had bags of them for toasting, laid out next to the sticks on the refreshments table. But the sticks Ronald was suddenly offering the unfamiliar guests already had marshmallows stuck on the ends. 

“Ta,” said the tall man as he took them. He was somehow still wearing sunglasses at this time of the evening. 

The white-haired man had his hands full of cocoa and jack o’lantern; the sunglasses man came to his rescue, deftly trading out the pumpkin for a marshmallow stick and setting it on a table. Ronald wasn’t sure he remembered the table sitting there before. He also wasn’t sure if he even owned it. It looked to be actual wood, and he didn’t think he’d set anything like that out in his field.

The stranger sipped the cocoa and regarded the marshmallow stick wistfully. “Crowley. Do you think there might be—”

“Sure there are, angel,” sunglasses man – Crowley? – said. He gestured to the table, where there were now plates of graham crackers and squares of chocolate that looked far more expensive than anything Ronald had bought.

His friend – Angel? – almost bounced in delight. “Americans did get s’mores right, I’ll grant them that.” His smile softened into something more tender. “Crowley. If you’d wanted to go to a bonfire, you could have told me. I’d have been more than happy to come with you. You didn’t have to lure me along with all this fuss over the pumpkins.”

He glanced over at Ronald. “And we could have built our own without intruding on this gentleman’s party.”

Crowley glanced away. “Nah. Didn’t want to set anything of ours burning like this.”

“Oh, darling.” Angel looked stricken. “Of course not.” 

He set his cocoa down on the table and took Crowley’s hand. “Let’s get these toasted.”

“Anything else I can get for you?” Ronald asked uncertainly. 

“We’re good.” Crowley stuck his marshmallow straight into the fire. 

Angel tutted at him in disapproval before turning to Ronald. “Thank you so very much.” His smile was blinding at close range. “This is a lovely fire. And I think it’s going to be a lovely evening.” (It would in fact turn out to be a lovely evening for everyone at the party. The food was a marvelous quality, the cider turned out to be much stronger than expected, and the bonfire lasted far longer than usual. His guests were still talking about it long afterwards. And Ronald woke up the next morning with his fall chrysanthemums blooming madly and a new collar on his little dog, rhinestones over a festive orange colour.)

“And thank you, dearest,” Angel added fondly to Crowley.

Crowley smiled and blew out his marshmallow.


	8. Ouija

“You’re sure I won’t break it?” Newt asked uncertainly. 

Anathema kissed him. “You’ll be fine. It’s not exactly electric, is it?” She gestured at the board and planchette.

Still dubious, Newt peered at the arcs of letters, the row of numbers. 

“Look. If we can figure out what happened to make the Antichrist end up in Tadfield, maybe we can learn what to look for in case it happens again somewhere else.” Anathema bit her lip. “And… it would be good practice for me. To figure out how predictions work. On my own, I mean.”

Newt immediately sat himself down at the table and waited attentively. This was work he would fully, unquestioningly support. Even if he didn’t quite understand Anathema’s tools. “I’ve never used a Ouija board before.”

“I haven’t either,” Anathema confessed. “The only spirit our family was interested getting advice from was Agnes.” 

“Is there anything else we need?”

Anathema considered a moment. “Maybe a paper and pen, to write down the letters?” Newt fetched them dutifully, enjoying the fact that he had been at Jasmine Cottage long enough to know where the pens and notepads were without having to ask.

They knew the general methodology, of course, and set their fingers on the planchette. “What happens next?” asked Newt.

“I ask it a question.” She hesitated before addressing the board. “Is… Is anyone there that can tell us about the Antichrist?”

At first there was no response. Then, slowly, the planchette moved. Its round window hovered over “Yes.” 

Anathema grinned delightedly at Newt. “Who are you?”

Another pause, then the planchette moved over letter after letter: S-I-S-T-E-R-T-H-E-R-E-S-A-G-A-R—

The planchette kept moving, but Anathema frowned. “Sister, there’s a what?”

“Not sure.” Newt wondered if he should have been writing it down. “Could it be Theresa, not ‘there’s a’?” 

“Ooh, that’s a thought!” Anathema took the notepad and began scribbling letters.

“Why don’t you let me take notes? You’re better at the occult side of things.” Anathema beamed and handed the pad over. Her smile was devastating. Newt almost dropped the pen.

“What church were you a part of, Sister?”

Newt knew Anathema’s light touch (another fact he enjoyed knowing) and, looking at her fingers, he didn’t believe she was moving the planchette on her own. It began to slide rapidly nonetheless. He hurriedly copied the letters: 

T-H-E-C-H-U-R-C-H-O-F-S-A-T-A-N-T-H-E-C-H-A-T-T-E-R-I-N-G-O-R-D-E-R-O-F-S-A-I-N-T-B-E-R-Y-L

“Well.” Anathema blinked. “I suppose the Church of Satan’s no surprise. I haven’t heard of a Chattering Order, though.” 

“Sister Theresa, could you slow down a bit?” Newt begged.

There was another pause – this one almost irritated, he thought – before the planchette started to glide madly about the board. 

W-E-A-R-E-A-C-H-A-T-T-E-R-I-N-G-O-R-D-E-R-W-E-S-A-Y-W-H-A-T-I-S-O-N-O-U-R-M-I-N-D-S

“That’s abundantly clear,” Anathema muttered. 

Before either of them could ask anything else, the planchette moved again, almost too fast for Newt to see the letters. 

“’Twas?” Anathema leaned forward, hovering, trying to get a better view. “Tab out? This can’t be referring to a bar.”

“Move a little, love.” Newt managed to catch the phrases in spite of Anathema blocking the view. He scrawled without stopping on the notepad. 

When he realised the Ouija – Sister Theresa? – was repeating itself – herself? – over and over again, he laid down the pen. “I think this is all we’re going to get here.”

Anathema took her hands away, but the planchette continued to move: even faster, he thought. It kept repeating the same pattern. He could hear the scratch against the board as it slid.

Then it burst into flames. 

They both shrieked in surprise. Newt threw down the notepad and ran for the fire extinguisher. 

When there was nothing left of the Ouija board but a pile of sticky powder on the table, they stared at one another. “See?” Newt mumbled. “Told you I’d break it.”

“No no no no!” Anathema pulled the fire extinguisher from his grip, dropped it on the floor, gathered him close. “For all we know, it was reacting to me. Maybe Sister Theresa didn’t like Agnes.”

“Could be, I guess.” Newt tightened his arms around her and tucked her head under his chin. “Tell you what. If you still want to look at Tadfield history, maybe we can go to the library tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe they’ll have something on the Chattering Order.”

He smiled crookedly, though she couldn’t see. “Reading old newspaper articles is my specialty.”

He could feel her laughter through his chest. “Yeah, I guess it is.” She pulled away and scowled at the mess. “I probably need to do a cleansing on the whole place after this.” 

“I can clean this up while you get together what you need.” A cleansing could take a while; he knew that much after this long living with the witch he’d found. “I’ll put the kettle on after.”

“That sounds good.” She smiled at him. It was like a kiss.

As she left him to gather her herbs, he saw that the notepad had only been partially caught by the spray. He looked at what he’d written down, and wondered if he should keep it. Maybe, he decided. Maybe Anathema would want to see it. It sounded like something she could sympathize with, after all.

He went to get the gloves. He left the notepad on the table. Anathema could read it later.

He didn’t see the burnt, curled plastic of the planchette twitch one last time as it tried again to spell out its question.

W-E-D-I-D-E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G-T-H-A-T-W-A-S-A-S-K-E-D-O-F-U-S

W-H-A-T-A-B-O-U-T-O-U-R-R-E-W-A-R-D-S

W-H-A-T-A-B-O-U-T-O-U-R-R-E-W-A-R-D-S

W-H-A-T-A-B-O-U-T-O-U-R-R-E-W-A-R-D-S


	9. Possession

Marjorie Potts had been possessed by an angel before. So when she felt the presence of one slipping into her consciousness, she welcomed it with pleased anticipation, even though this one definitely was not the same as the last. 

She regretted it almost immediately.

Mr Aziraphale had been a bit of a bastard, true enough, but he had also been kind. He had come into her space flickering and uncertain - but warm, friendly, like a candle in the dark. And once they’d settled into their temporary cohabitation the uncertainty had vanished, replaced with a fierce determination and a subconscious gratitude for her willingness to help that he never articulated but that she sensed nonetheless, diffusing through her awareness like the milk he’d poured absentmindedly with her hands into the tea she usually took without.

This angel was different. 

They arrived like a light in the dark, but this was no friendly candle. More like a blinding spotlight, shining in her face as if she was being interrogated in a dark room, like in one of the crime dramas Mr S was so partial to. 

And she was being interrogated. Even if he had been in rather a rush, Mr Aziraphale had taken time to explain the situation, to get her agreement to help. This new angel didn’t want to tell her anything. They wanted her to tell them _everything_. Everything about Mr Aziraphale especially. 

They drew from her the memory of his arrival, his description of the Apocalypse and the Antichrist (though she’d thought she was fairly fuzzy on these details until the onslaught of the new angel’s relentless inquisition). But what they seemed most interested in was the tall man – the _demon_ – that had sauntered to meet Mr Aziraphale at the airfield. 

She’d felt the flush of his delight at the demon’s arrival, and at the compliment on the dress. (She didn’t pretend she hadn’t felt the same thrill.) But more than that, she’d seen the spark of love within him. He kept it deep down inside, where she thought he’d hidden it away from even himself, though he cradled it close and hidden and safe. 

She kept it close and hidden and safe, too, with the strength of all her years of crystal balls and leather straps, the years of learning and keeping other people’s secrets, although the interrogating angel sought to strip it from her possession.

When she looked in the mirror, she wasn’t surprised; she was expecting to see the angel’s face instead of her own. But this face wasn’t plump and unassuming, like the other. It was cold and sharp, and her neck strained beneath the weight of their dark curls, and perhaps with the weight of an unseen halo. That’s what angels were supposed to have, yes? 

Her own lips curled as the angel in the mirror sneered, and she felt their contempt for _humans_. And for _demons_. And most of all – surprisingly, most of all – for the other angel. For _Mr Aziraphale_.

“This human can’t tell us anything else about the traitor, Gabriel,” she heard herself say.

And then she was shoved aside – her actual _body_ was shoved aside – and the last she saw of this angel was the utter surprise on their face as cracks spread in the mirror.

She felt their surprise as well, and she took advantage of it to reject their presence, to drive them forth from her mind, as Mr Shadwell slammed his coffee cup into the mirror again and again. With his free hand he was pointing a firm finger at the remnants of the mirror frame, where the angel’s image had been.

“I’ll have no more o’ those fiends takin’ ye over, Jezebel,” he shouted, panting, standing among the mixed shards of mirror glass and ceramic, with sticky-sweet coffee dripping off the vanity edge into her lap. 

Being covered in sticky liquid was nothing new for her, but the shattered glass was a first, and so it took her a moment to register his worry. “Jezebel?” he asked in a small voice. She carefully reached out to pat his arm in reassurance, and he smiled so sweetly in relief that she almost didn’t recognize him. “Thought they might no’ give ye back this time.” 

“Oh, no, love! You got here just in time. For a moment there I thought I might be about to grow a second set of nipples.” 

She let him happily wind himself up with a good nipple rant while she collected her thoughts. Her thoughts, her own, not the vicious angel’s nor anybody else’s. 

Well, perhaps a bit of Mr Aziraphale’s.

Wasn’t that something? To think he might have left her his deepest secret – his guarded, cherished treasure, in her custody. She’d just have to do her best to protect it as well as he had. It was a challenge she felt up to. Discretion was a professional skill she’d spent a long time honing, after all.

She supposed she could start by being a bit more discerning about letting angels in the next time they came knocking.


	10. Legends

Lesley had already processed the return on the scales and the coronet. But he’d had no instructions as to the sword; when he followed up with the International Express Company’s head office, he was told there was some sort of an ongoing ownership dispute. Until it was resolved, he was to keep the sword locked in the office safe. 

He had doubts about the adequacy of office security, but that wasn’t going to stop him from adhering to company protocol. 

A month later, the paperwork for the sword’s transfer to the Quartermaster at Celestial’s Westminster branch appeared in his stack of outgoing deliveries. Lesley hated driving in London. He especially hated driving in London with the clunky van. So he put it off until it was the only delivery left for the day, and cursed himself as he wove through London’s afternoon traffic.

And of course there was an accident.

He wasn’t hurt, just badly shaken. The other driver too. His van, though, had its whole side dented in, and at least two of the now-flat tyres had badly bent rims. 

He reported the wreck to his supervisor as soon as he’d finished talking with the police. For the most part, his boss was sympathetic and helpful. She got him set up with a tow service and made sure he didn’t need a trip to the A&E. She arranged for a company car to fetch him home, though it would take a couple of hours for the driver to get there.

“Were you done with deliveries for the day?” she asked him, voice tinny over the mobile, as he waited on the lorry to tow the van away.

“Just about. Only one left.” 

He heard the clicking of her keyboard. “Oh. That one.” There was a long pause. “Lesley… is there any way you could get that to them before close of business?”

He was too surprised to answer right away, and she rushed on, almost apologetically. “Celestial’s a very important client. I wouldn’t be asking if you’d been hurt, but, since you’re all right… the map says you’re just a few blocks away?” It was not quite a question.

It wouldn’t be the worst thing he’d done for a delivery. Not by a long shot. But he was suddenly very tired.

“Yeah, I can get it there.” 

“Brilliant! Let me know when you’re done, and then you can find someplace to eat while you wait for the car. And keep the receipt. Dinner’s on us.” 

He was grateful to have the excuse of the lorry’s arrival to end the call. 

He scrambled to get the sword in its box from the back of the van before the lorry driver took it away. When he pulled up directions on his phone, he saw his boss had been right: he was only about three kilometres away. But three kilometres on a nice neighbourhood walk with Maud was a different thing from three kilometres across London, wasn’t it? Especially with a bloody sword under your arm.

A fat raindrop hit the screen on his phone. Then another. They trickled into Lesley’s eyes when he raised his face to look at the clouds, and he hastily dragged the package under an awning as the rain began to pour. He peered through the deluge as best he could. Not a rideshare or taxi in sight. But there was a sign for a Tube entrance not even half a block down. 

And just like that, he was done. Done with the phone, done with the rain, done with the waiting and with his own indecision. 

He wrapped his jacket halfheartedly around the sword and hurried toward the Tube sign.

*~*~*

In general, Lesley approved of the Tube when he was in London; he approved of just about anything that let him get places without having to drive. But this afternoon he found it unsettling. The station was eerily empty. Just a few people ignoring him as they stared at their mobiles.

His own mobile had refused to pick up signal the moment he’d stepped off the escalator, and so he found himself grateful to be ignored as he studied the map on the wall like a tourist. He was pretty sure he was just a few stops away down the same line.

When the train arrived, he minded the gap and collapsed into a seat, propping the sword against his leg. He bounced his knee, trying to stave off the exhaustion of the long afternoon. He couldn’t fall asleep. He’d miss his stop. Besides, he wouldn’t want anyone to think he was the Corpse on the Tube, would he? 

That old urban legend had given him the creeps the first time he’d heard it.

 _Three people get on the Tube and sit together all in a row,_ his friend had told him. _And they’re talkin’, maybe having an argument, I dunno. But the one in the middle gets real quiet, and kinda goes limp. And everyone thinks the middle one’s just drunk or something, yeah? After a few stops the other two get off, and it’s a little weird they’d just up and leave their mate passed out like that, but no one wants to say anything in case the drunk one gets mad or starts puking or something. And he rides like that for a few more stops. All slumped over. But then there’s a jerk when the train starts up again, and the drunk guy falls over, but there’s blood everywhere and he’s not drunk, he’s dead, with a knife in him. They’d killed him right there on the train._

It wasn’t really the scariest story he’d ever heard. His friend had been pretty drunk himself, telling it, and had immediately started squabbling with the rest of the group over the specifics. 

_I heard it was a knife they got him with, but if you’ve heard it was scissors then it could have been scissors. Anything pointy would work, I guess._

_I don’t know why he didn’t scream when they stabbed him either._

_Don’t ask me, I wasn’t there. But I heard it from my cousin. She said her friend saw it all happen._

No, it wasn’t the scariest thing Lesley had ever heard, but it stuck with him even so.

“Hello,” purred a woman’s voice. 

She’d sat down next to him without him noticing. Quite a feat, with her long red hair and bright red clothes, and her vicious red smile. He’d seen her before, though he couldn’t think where.

“I think you have a package for me.” With a red-lacquered nail, she tapped on the box that held the sword.

He pulled it toward himself protectively, and bristled when she laughed. “Are you an official Celestial representative?” he demanded.

She laughed harder. “No. I’m not. Do I look like I am? I’ll have to talk to my stylist.”

“Then I’m afraid this delivery isn’t for you.” He spoke firmly, but his gut clenched in fear.

Her smile was cruel. “Maybe it’s not. But there’s not much you can do if I take it anyway, is there?” She pulled a pen from her pocket. “I’ll even sign for it.”

Lesley stared at it. It was red. 

In his terror, all he could think was that her signature wouldn’t be in the officially required blue or black ink.

When she touched the package again, he didn’t resist. She popped the box open and reached inside.

As she drew out the sword, pale fingers closed over her hand.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said a very crisp, very posh, vaguely familiar voice. “But he indicated this delivery is intended for an official Celestial representative. I don’t believe you meet that qualification.” 

A soft, fussy, pale-haired man had somehow appeared in the seat on Lesley’s other side. He wore a bowtie and a waistcoat, and held a bag of cracked corn tucked underneath one elbow. With his free hand he gripped the sword’s hilt. His fingers were tangled with the red woman’s. 

Her eyes narrowed. “Neither do you,” she spat.

“No, not anymore,” the newcomer agreed. “But I’m not that far off the mark. 

“And besides,” he added, “I have no interest in using it myself. I merely intend to make certain you don’t use it, either.” His grip on the red woman’s hand never slackened.

“You think it’ll be better off with Heaven?” she demanded incredulously.

“It can’t possibly be worse than where it wound up the last time I lost track of it,” the man snapped. 

Lesley’s memory suddenly clicked into place, and he looked back and forth between them: the one he’d delivered the sword to, and the one he’d collected it from again. And he here he was in between. 

The pale man wasn’t the one Lesley would have put odds on, but slowly, surely, the woman’s fingers began to slide loose, and Lesley knew the sword was about to slip from her grasp. 

He could tell the moment she knew it, too – he could tell because with a snarl, her fingers tightened one last time on the hilt; with the man’s hand still over her own she twisted her arm and vindictively drove the blade into Lesley’s chest.

His every nerve exploded into agony, and the world blurred around him. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain was too great for any sound to escape. Instead he heard a hissing spilling sound, like grain pouring onto a floor; he heard the squeal of brakes, the rattle of the train doors, the brisk tapping of departing bootheels. 

As he slipped into unconsciousness, he felt a touch. Cool hands. They took away the pain. He desperately wished they were Maud’s.

*~*~*

Lesley woke up with a jerk as the train lurched to a halt.

He’d had the most terrible dream.

“Up you get, then.” A skinny ginger in sunglasses stood next to him. “This is our stop.” 

Two teenagers were watching Lesley nervously from the other side of the car. As he stood up shakily, they began whispering to one another; he thought they sounded relieved.

The train car’s floor was covered in cracked corn. “Watch your step,” his companion advised, shaking his head ruefully. “That’s the last time I let him walk home from the duck pond by himself. Good job he found you though, I guess.” 

“Who’s ‘he’?” Lesley asked muzzily. He felt dazed, groggy; he could barely keep himself upright, and he was having a hard time even thinking. “And who are you?”

“Me?” The stranger was all innocence behind the sunglasses. “I’m just here to see you settled safe. He would have done it himself, but I thought he needed to get a drink or two in him. This afternoon took it right out of him.” He scowled as he herded Lesley toward the lift.

A drink or two sounded like just the ticket, Lesley decided. He couldn’t remember anything that had happened between getting on the Tube and waking up at the stop, but he rather thought the afternoon had taken it out of him as well.

They emerged in front of a gleaming office building. The Celestial building. Westminster branch. Lesley went cold. He was supposed to deliver something here, wasn’t he? He began patting at his own clothes in confusion, turning out his pockets fruitlessly.

“Oh! Right.” Mr Sunglasses produced Lesley’s bag and pulled out the clipboard. Lesley snatched it and rifled through the pages. The very last form was for the delivery of the sword – the _sword,_ yes! Lesley wasn’t sure why the thought of it ran him through with chills – and it was signed in an elegant but unreadable script, written in smooth black ink.

Lesley didn’t remember making the delivery, and he couldn’t decipher the signature. “If there’s a problem,” he said worriedly, “will they know who signed for it?”

“They will indeed,” said his companion, with a wry twist to his mouth. “And if there’s a problem, I don’t think it’ll be one _you'll_ have to deal with.”

*~*~*

They went to a bar next to the Celestial building. It was far fancier than Lesley would have preferred, but it was close and he didn’t feel up to much walking. Besides, he was pretty sure he remembered he was supposed to put dinner on the company tab.

In the far back corner was a pale-blond man, sitting with a glass and a bottle of gin. He looked tired, and upset, and very, very drunk. Lesley thought he saw a long box propped against the man’s table. 

It was the man from his dream.

Mr Sunglasses followed his stare and frowned. “Never mind him,” he said, bundling Lesley into a seat at the bar. “He’s for me to worry about. You get yourself some food. And don’t forget to call your work and tell them where to send the car, yeah? Phone’s in your bag.”

Lesley caught at his sleeve as he turned to go. “I don’t – I don’t even know what to tell them. About the train, I mean. And the delivery. Do you know what happened?”

The sunglasses man only gave him a small smile. “If I was to tell you what happened to you today, you wouldn’t believe me. And I wouldn’t blame you.” 

He turned away and left Lesley sitting alone.

The phone was in Lesley’s bag, in the side pocket where he always kept it, and it was fully charged. He thumbed through his call history. The last number listed was his boss’s – that lined up with his memory, at least. He knew he needed to check in, but there was someone else he wanted to talk to first, to tell the story of this strange afternoon.

For a few moments he watched Mr Sunglasses fuss over the drunk blond man in the corner. 

And then he scrolled through his phone to find Maud’s number, and pressed _Call._


	11. Haunt

“Oh,” his new supervisor Tina said as they walked down the hall. “Stay out of number 4.”

“What’s wrong with 4?” Gerald asked.

“We just… don’t use it. The projector didn’t work right, so we took it out. And, well. Look, weird stuff just happens in there, okay? You don’t have to worry about it if you don’t go in.”

It just meant less cleaning for him, so Gerald let it drop. He was not surprised at all to learn that one of the projectors wasn’t working. He actually _was_ surprised there weren’t more problems; privately, he thought it was a miracle that the whole run-down cinema itself was still standing.

But the pay would be keeping him in pizza and petrol. And best of all, no one here called him “Greasy.”

His first few weeks at the cinema passed uneventfully. He learned how to run the registers and work the popcorn machine, and where the supply closet was, and how to start the films.

A few times at night, when Gerald was helping close down the building, he noticed that the door to Screen 4 had come open. But none of the doors latched well so he didn’t think much about it.

It was pretty slow in the middle of the week. On Tuesday he and Tina were the only ones there at close. She sent him to collect the trash while she counted down the registers.

The door to Screen 4 was open again. And a light was flickering inside.

When Gerald stuck his head in, there was a film up on the screen.

It wasn’t one that was currently running. Gerald didn’t even recognise it at all. It had 3-D animated rabbits in pastel colours, 3 of them, blue and pink and green. But the blue and green ones were huddled in a corner of the screen as far away from the pink one as possible, looking as terrified as cartoon bunnies could look.

He saw why when the pink bunny pulled off its head to reveal a weird animated person with a frog on their head.

This person did not look like someone who would have friendly interactions with rabbits, cartoon or otherwise.

Gerald looked up to where the projector would normally hang, but nothing was there except empty holes where bolts used to be. There wasn’t light from anywhere else in the cinema either. Just the screen itself, glowing.

“You.”

If Gerald didn’t know better, he would have thought the pink rabbit person was talking to him—

“You. With the garbage bag.”

Gerald dropped it in his shock. The trash spilled out: kernels of popcorn, half-drunk soft drinks, used napkins, it all went everywhere.

“Where is he?”

He answered without thinking. “Wh – Where is who?”

“Crowley. The traitor. Where is he?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know about any traitors, but no one named Crowley works here.”

Gerald came back to himself a bit when the frog-head rabbit person looked away, snarling, to scan the empty seats. Shaking, he fished about in the semi-dark and tried to gather up as much garbage as he could, so he could get the hell out.

A hand closed around his arm, and he shrieked and dropped the bag again.

Tina dragged him toward the door.

As they stumbled out, behind them the pink rabbit screamed, “Tell him we’re watching! Tell him we’re waiting! Tell him, Greasy!”

They stood panting in the hall. Something squealed in the cinema, and for a second the light flickered red. Then there was just the sound of dripping.

Tina kicked the door shut and whirled on him. “What did I tell you about going into number 4?”

“The light was on!” he protested. “And y’know, maybe if you’d told me _why_ I shouldn’t have gone in there it would have been a lot easier to listen.”

“Really? You think you’d have stayed working here if we told you screen 4 was haunted by a homicidal cartoon man in a rabbit suit with a frog on his head? Turnover here’s high enough as it is.”

He had to admit Tina had a point.

“What about the trash? It’s all over the floor in there.”

“Leave it. We’ll get it tomorrow. There’ll be enough of us we can go in in pairs then. And we’ll turn on all the lights first. You _never_ go in there alone in the dark.”

She glared at him. “Next time you better not think about going in there at all.”

Gerald didn’t think that would be a problem.

The door still didn’t latch, and the light was still flickering, and the dripping noises were still coming from inside, so they dragged one of the heavy trash cans in front of the closed door before they left. By silent mutual agreement, neither of them said another word.

Until they were locking up. Tina frowned at him. “Did that thing call you ‘ _Greasy’_?”


	12. Magic

Mr Fell was one of his favourite customers.

Eddie might be selling ice-cream from a stand in the park _now_ , but someday he was going to be a stage magician. He was going to have his own act, and a fancy tailored suit, and a pretty assistant who would wear something sparkly when he disappeared her or sawed her in half.

At first he’d thought Mr Crowley was Mr Fell’s pretty assistant, but the one time he’d suggested it, Mr Fell laughed so hard he cried and Mr Crowley was Extremely Upset. He’d screamed at the poor ducks for an extra half hour. But Mr Fell gave Eddie a tenner to make up for Mr Crowley not buying his usual lolly, so that was all right. For everyone but the ducks, he guessed.

Mr Fell had tried to pull the note from behind Eddie’s ear, but he dropped it and the wind almost blew it into the duck pond. Truth be told, Eddie thought Mr Fell wasn’t very good at magic tricks. But he tried, and he was never cross when they didn’t work, and he was the only one who ever wanted to talk with him about tricks and props and techniques.

He even had a trained rabbit, a white one named Harry, who was very nice about letting Eddie practise pulling him out of the top hat Mr Fell always seemed to have with him. Eddie always fed Harry bits of bananas and strawberries as a reward, which probably had something to do with his good behaviour.

But then there was The Day. The Day of the Fanciest Magic Trick He’d Ever Seen.

When Eddie thought about it later, he decided that that was why Mr Fell and Mr Crowley had been acting so strange. They were probably nervous about pulling it off. Mr Fell hadn’t dithered over the ice-creams, which was very unusual, and Mr Crowley hadn’t stood around staring at him all love-struck while he dithered, which was also very unusual. Instead they were both anxious and jittery and kept looking over their shoulders like they were expecting something.

And oh, boy! Had there _ever_ been something to expect!

Mr Crowley had paid, which _was_ usual. But before they could leave on their stroll, people had started appearing out of nowhere! At least a half dozen of them!

They’d been quite rough with Mr Fell and Mr Crowley, which was the only part of the trick that Eddie hadn’t liked. Ropes and even crowbars had been involved. They didn’t even give them a chance to finish their ice-cream.

He’d thought maybe an escape from the ropes might be forthcoming, but no such luck.

Instead, all of them, every last one of them, had vanished right into thin air, just like they’d appeared! And they took Mr Fell and Mr Crowley with them.

No one else in the park seemed to notice, though.

Since he was the only one who’d reacted, Eddie suspected maybe he was in one of those prank videos you sometimes saw on the internet. So he tried to keep some dignity. He straightened his apron and hat before he started looking around for the equipment, or at least the cameras. He couldn’t go very far from the ice-cream cart, of course, and so he wasn’t all _that_ surprised with he didn’t find anything. But he was practically jumping up and down inside – this was the closest he’d ever been to a big trick like this, outside of the magic shows he saved up for a few times a year!

And here, _here_ he came, the man who must have been the magician responsible (Eddie felt a pang of guilt over his disloyalty, but he didn’t think Mr Fell had the skill to do a trick this big). He was in a pale grey suit, perfectly tailored, with a fancy purple scarf, looking just exactly how a real stage magician should look. The tiny person walking with him must be his assistant, although they’d changed back to street clothes already – their clothes were strange and dark, and they were definitely not wearing anything that sparkled.

Eddie couldn’t help himself. He abandoned his cart and ran to them. “That was _amazing_!” he exclaimed. “How did you do it? Where did you learn it?”

The magician looked at him blankly. “What?”

“Oh!” Eddie realised his mistake. “Of course you can’t give it away! I shouldn’t have asked you to tell me your secrets.”

“Uh. Yes. You… shouldn’t?” the magician agreed cautiously.

“It was incredible though! How you made everyone appear and disappear like that. There wasn’t even any smoke or pyrotechnics!” Eddie gushed.

“Pyrotechnics?” The magician seemed genuinely confused.

His assistant rolled their eyes. “He meanzzz fire.”

They studied Eddie with disinterest before turning to survey the rest of the park. “Lookzzz like thizzz is the only one who noticed,” they observed in a strange buzzing voice. “You’ll take care of it?”

“Of course,” said the magician, affronted.

“Good.” And then the _assistant_ disappeared! The pure skill of it! Eddie wondered if they gave lessons.

“Do you do shows somewhere? Or do you at least have a card?” he begged.

Panic flooded the magician’s face. “Ahhhh… I don’t think I do?”

“Well.” Eddie tried not to be disappointed. “When will Mr Fell be back?”

“Mr who? Oh! You mean Aziraphale.” The magician grinned. “He did get pretty creative around you all, didn’t he?”

“He did!” Eddie said staunchly.

“Unfortunately, ‘Mr Fell’ won’t be coming back. Not after the fire.”

 _The fire!_ They were using pyrotechnics after all. Eddie was _jealous._ Mr Fell was getting to take part in so many new tricks. Eddie had had no idea.

“What about Mr Crowley?”

“It’s going to be the water for him.”

Even Mr Crowley was going to get to learn something new! Some kind of water trap, it sounded like? Eddie hadn’t known he even liked magic tricks. He got so surly when Mr Fell tried to do them. He seemed like someone who could get out of traps pretty easy though. All skinny and squirmy.

“That sounds great. I hope they’ll manage to come back and visit sometime though. Lovely gentlemen. Great customers.” Eddie smiled hopefully. “Don’t suppose you’re looking for another student though? Or an assistant?” He wouldn’t mind getting set on fire or sawed in half if it meant getting to learn new things. He even had some sparkly things of his own he could wear.

“Er – no. Good luck though.” The magician fumbled for something else to say. Finally he sputtered, “Be not afraid!” And vanished.

 _God._ He was so good.

Eddie returned to the cart, and started scooping a chocolate cone for a very annoyed teenager who’d been waiting for him to get back, and waited for the cameras to come out.


	13. Ritual

Brother Francis tried not to resent the clear edge Nanny Ashtoreth had over him when it came to influencing the Adversary.

She was not only able to be with him at every hour of every day, but it was actually _expected_ of her! It was her professional responsibility! Francis only got him during the few hours of the afternoon in which he needed to burn off some energy, and then half the time he was trying to keep Warlock from running with garden shears and trampling Nanny’s flowers.

(Because, all pretense aside, they were indubitably Nanny’s flowers and not Francis’s at all.)

Still, there were a few things he did that managed to attract Warlock’s attention. The boy liked animals, so Francis took care to keep a few around: a friendly squirrel that would take nuts from your hand, fish in a pond with lilies. A little cat for vermin who terrorized the squirrel but who was also nice company on the nights Nanny couldn’t visit the gardener’s cottage.

(The cat and Francis both had been startled to wake up one morning find her tabby fur turned black. “Much more thematically appropriate, don’t you think?” Nanny’d said briskly, and Francis had rolled his eyes but said nothing, especially since Nanny had kept the cat’s two white feet, like little gloves on her front paws.)

And there was Halloween.

It was something of a sad holiday for a young American boy at an isolated country house, particularly since his parents were always out for the evening. Harriet would wear some sort of ears or tail or other appendage that could be easily pinned on and removed again. Thaddeus would cram himself into some ill-fitting approximation of an American sports uniform. The two of them would leave for a “diplomatic event” that would leave them hung over and ill-tempered in the morning, and Warlock would be left to his own devices.

So Francis created some traditions just for the three of them. A ritual, of sorts.

(Was it blasphemous for an angel to create a ritual for Halloween? He decided he could write it off as an attempt to rehabilitate a holiday focused on wickedness, if Heaven asked. But they never asked.)

When Warlock was very small, Francis bought candy. He tried to keep it to American candies at first, but they were so unpleasant that he quickly abandoned authenticity in favor of quality, except for the M&Ms that Nanny was inexplicably partial to.

He’d divided the candy up amongst the staff and they’d all spread out across the estate. Nanny trotted Warlock around in whatever costume he’d wanted that year. A vampire; a robot; a superhero. And they all had a grand time with the little trick-or-treat. But Warlock had quickly decided he’d outgrown that part of the routine, although he never did outgrow the Halloween candy, which Francis continued to purchase.

(The staff were all actually disappointed when the trick-or-treating ended. Francis was touched, and so every year he made sure to buy extra sweets and make up little treat bags for everyone, in “spooky”-patterned fabrics tied with bits of black ribbon. And if there was one that was bigger than the rest, for the biggest spooky fan of all… and if he was in the habit of leaving it on Nanny’s pillow with one of her own black-red roses… well.)

The part he had to remember in advance, though, was the pumpkins.

He’d been around long enough to remember the first jack o’ lanterns, the ones humans had made from root vegetables. Nanny had laughed herself sick that first year when Francis had produced several sizeable turnips to carve. Every year since, he’d had to give himself enough time to plant the gourds and help them grow. He chose five or six to coddle that would be sure to have perfectly smooth sides for carving, or have interesting bumps and warts that could be incorporated into the artistic design.

Carving the pumpkins was Warlock’s favourite part. Francis was always alarmed by the enthusiasm with which he sank the knife in to cut out the lid, and with which he strewed sticky pumpkin innards across the entire table. But Nanny would be there to supervise. And to Francis’s surprise, she’d only made a token protest when he’d talked Warlock into using a special set of tiny saws and blades for the jack o’ lantern faces instead of the big knife, on the grounds that they were better for carving out details.

(Warlock was actually very good at detailed pumpkin faces, and the artistry with which he was able to sculpt out swirls and slices and silhouettes never ceased to delight Francis, even if he mostly used his talents to depict sharp teeth and dripping gore. Warlock always complained, though, that Nanny’s pumpkins had too many eyes, and that the eyes on Francis’s pumpkins never had anything but slit pupils. Nanny ignored him. Francis simply observed that it was good for an artist to be known for his signature work.)

Nanny’s favourite part was the horror films. She’d wanted to start Warlock off on “the classics” early, _The Exorcist_ and _The Shining_ and _Psycho_ , but Francis had put his foot down and refused to relent. “That is simply too much wiling for me to thwart,” he’d said sternly. “They’re much too scary for anyone that young, Antichrist or no. Not to mention all that fake blood and pea soup. Once he gets ideas into his head, the mess at the dinner table will be outrageous.”

They’d settled instead on old ones, bad ones, ones where you could see the strings on the puppets and the zippers on the costumes. Francis made popcorn and sweet cider.

(The films were still scary enough that Nanny sometimes insisted on cuddling into Francis’s side for reassurance. Warlock made faces at them. But every once in a while, he insisted on cuddling into Francis too.)

As for Francis, his very favourite part of the evening was after the films were over, when Warlock had fallen asleep, before Nanny woke him up just enough to stagger off to bed once he got too big to be carried. The two of them would switch out their cider for something alcoholic. A nice red wine, or sometimes scotch. There was no more need to worry about light glaring on the telly, or about Warlock noticing miracles, so Nanny would light a fire in the fireplace with a quick flick of her fingers.

It was easy to forget, then.

It was easy to forget what they were there for. To pretend it was just the two of them, in their own house with drinks in their hands and a fire crackling cheerfully against the cold wind outside, with their cat purring on the rug before the hearth and their own child sleeping safe on the sofa between them. To pretend it was nothing out of the ordinary when a slim, long-fingered hand slipped warm into his own.

These stolen moments blinked by far too quickly, faster and faster every year, but he drew them out as long as he could. They never spoke a word, he and Nanny. It would break the spell and shatter the little world they conjured with their ritual. They only drank their wine, and listened to the leaves blowing against the windows, and watched Warlock dreaming.

And they sheltered it close every time, this brief warmth of their little found family: shielding it in their clasped hands like fragile lights, like candles in the pumpkins, flickering bright as they could against the howling dark of the end of the world.


End file.
